Page 51 of A Queen's Match
Emanuele looked momentarily surprised by her agreement;then he grinned. The moonlight gilded his handsome features, his aquiline nose and bright hazel eyes. “Excellent.”
They headed into the grove of leafy trees—magnolias, perhaps, though Hélène wasn’t much of a gardener. Emanuele interlaced his fingers and held out his hands in a makeshift stirrup, like a groom offering to lift her into the saddle. “May I help, Your Royal Highness?”
“Thanks, but no.” Hélène reached around the trunk, getting a solid grip, before placing her foot on one of the knots of the tree. Her thin slippers were surprisingly good for climbing, letting her curl her toes for balance. She stretched a hand toward a lower branch and hoisted herself up.
Emanuele chuckled approvingly and headed to a neighboring tree. “I’ll see you up there.”
Hélène only glanced over once on the way up. Emanuele was making faster progress than she was, his movements brisk and deliberate. Well, perhaps he’d climbed a tree more recently than she had; she moved slowly, choosing her handholds with care. The last thing she needed on this sea journey was a broken leg.
But then, Hélène felt herself settling into the movement. Her thighs were sore, her hands covered in small scrapes from the bark. It was glorious. She’d forgotten how liberating it was to do something entirely physical. Her brain was too absorbed to think or wonder or fret about anything, even Eddy.
When she reached a strong branch, Hélène sat back, leaning against the trunk, one leg to either side. The skirts of her nightgown were past repair. This was undoubtedly scandalous, and probably quite dangerous, too, but she didn’t care. It felt so good todosomething, to push through the anger and sorrow that had numbed her these past weeks.
“How are you feeling?” Emanuele asked, perched on a branch of his own. Behind him Hélène saw the palace, moonlight winking on its great glass windows.
“I’m enjoying myself, actually.”
For a moment there was just the sound of wind raking through the leaves, branches rustling around her. Then Emanuele cleared his throat.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Hélène’s heart skipped. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said quickly.
He leaned back, bracing both hands behind his head as if he were lying on a chaise, not on a tree branch suspended in midair. He was so cavalier, so at home there, that it struck Hélène as vaguely piratical. The way a marauder might look while poised up high in the ship’s rigging.
“Very well, we don’t have to discuss whatever has upset you. We can just talk as our families do, discussing things that do not truly matter. What did you hear about at dinner?” Emanuele asked flippantly. “The weather? The size of your yacht? Or perhaps you’d like to debate the merits of Verdi’s operas?”
Hélène’s grip on the branch tightened. It was unnerving, hearing Emanuele voice the things she had thought so many times.
“It’s not my yacht,” she replied, matching his nonchalance. “It belongs to the Romanovs.”
“Are the Romanovs the ones who made you so angry?”
Emanuele clearly hadn’t heard the rumors about her and Nicholas. Perhaps word of their flirtation hadn’t spread as far as Hélène had thought. Or perhaps Emanuele simply didn’t care about gossip.
“I don’t know you. Why do you even care?” she asked bluntly.
“Because you are a beautiful woman in distress. I wouldn’t be Italian if I didn’t want to help.” The words were flippant, but Hélène heard the genuine concern, and curiosity, beneath.
“Besides,” Emanuele went on, “it’sbecauseyou don’t know me that I should be easy to talk to. Just as confession is easier when you can’t see the priest’s face.”
“Confession up in the trees,” Hélène muttered. “The Church could learn a thing or two from you.”
“Alas, I am too sinful to become a priest,” Emanuele quipped.
Hélène’s gaze drifted downward. Her feet dangled in the open air, giving her an unnerving sense of vertigo. Perhaps that was why this all felt as surreal as a dream.
“I made some mistakes,” she admitted.
“Haven’t we all?”
“Perhaps, but did yours cost you the person you love?”
Emanuele drew in a breath. “I am sorry. Affairs of the heart are indeed serious.” He hesitated, then added, “May I ask of whom we are speaking?”
“Prince Eddy.”
“Prince Eddy. Of England,” Emanuele said slowly, as if to be sure. “You and he were—”
